


Sleeping Arrangements

by cinnamonears (orphan_account)



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Jon's POV, M/M, Mild Smut, POV Second Person, as fluff as these two get anyway, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6571720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cinnamonears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There always seems to be differing plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sleeping Arrangements

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I write more than smut. In fact, I rarely write smut. But somehow this is what I get talked into posting. Your guess is as good as mine. This was supposed to actually be more smutty, but instead became really sentimental. It got away from me.

You aren’t sure how you’ve found yourself like this, pressed against the door to your bedroom by a certain Edward Nygma. The plan had definitely been going to bed (in a separate room, thank you), and somehow that notion had been fairly quick in shattering. It had been something to do with being followed down the hall, you think, a complaint about him not wanting to leave, your wayward comment about not being entertained, and now it seems he’s determined to make sure you’re amused.

There’s a hand wound into your hair, gloved, and the way his fingers rake the back of your skull elicits the tiniest groan into his mouth. This seems to please him, if the intensity of the kiss is any indication, and the next moment he’s pulled back and started peppering kisses along the side of your neck, warm. “You were supposed to be leaving,” you manage, not that you really want him to be going anywhere at this point.

His immediate answer is to nip the place your sweater’s collar meets skin, and you decide maybe you can argue particulars later, when heat isn’t rushing through you. Your own arms lift, one to brush against a hip and slide onto his lower back, another to ghost against the base of his neck. You can feel him smile into your pulse, and you hate, just a little, how that makes it beat a bit faster. “If this is all an attempt to slip into my bed instead of the couch-”

“Do you want me in your bed, Jonathan?” It’s the way he immediately pulls back, eyes shining with mischief, smile tugging one side of his lips further than the other (and you notice the difference in all of the smiles, don’t you?) that has you hesitating, answer stuck in your throat, and it’s because the answer is definitely ‘yes, right now, please’. This isn’t the first time this has happened, but it’s not exactly what you’d meant, either. He’s got you trapped in more ways than one, hands resting against the door on either side of you now. You find you don’t really mind.

In lieu of a reply, though, you just open the door. His hands drop immediately, and it’s with a certain smugness that he crosses the room to seat himself on your bed, arms stretching out behind him, waiting. And he’ll want a minute to bask, so you give it, lingering by the door with your hand still on the doorknob, wearing your own faint smile of appreciation. (Because he is breathtaking in his own way, and knows, and for that reason, it doesn’t seem important to tell him.)

Once you’ve decided you’ve indulged him long enough, he tilts his head up lazily towards you, not moving otherwise. The comment is on the edge of his lips - you can feel it more than see it, anticipate it in the way you’ve come to - some smart remark about you being frightened, nothing more than an attempt to goad you into action. It’s always better beating him to the answer; you’re straddling him within a few moments. “Am I going to have to undress you myself?”

Edward has the audacity to pull his arms from under him and basically flop back onto the bed, still nothing but grins and coquettish expression. “I take it we won’t be sleeping?”

“Not after that ridiculous behavior in the hallway.” It’s easier to just start unbuttoning his shirt (he’s so particular about the buttons not being lost), and he’s content to just watch. You’d be more exasperated if you weren’t used to it, and you’re far past feeling any sort of self-conscious by now. “I’m sure you don’t mind.”

“Only if you’re going to be slow about it,” he quips, and you find yourself being pulled down to join him, hovering just over him on the bed. There’s no point in arguing, given how insistent he can be, but you offer your own bite into the kiss as a punishment that only hastens the urgency in both of you.

When you’d lost the rest of your clothes, you aren’t sure of either. You don’t flinch when he touches your bare back anymore (gloved, at first, scar on scar a few moments later, when you’ve tugged the purple fabric from his fingers in your impatience), and there’s no point in showing restraint for a show like this. Sometimes it’s more entertaining to wait, drag things out, but tonight you’ve taken in by a mischievous smile, and it only feels right to follow suit.

What doesn’t ever completely leave you, though, is the humor found in any given situation like this, in bed with the Riddler, the pure unpredictability of the situation, how you never would’ve guessed. And this smacks you soundly while you’re both panting, one of your hands entwined with his, body keeping him pressed into the mattress, buried inside him and for all intentions very otherwise occupied.

You can’t help but laugh into the kiss, at the absurdity, the vulnerability, the fact that you’re here at all. He’s watching you. Of course he is. “Have I mentioned how breathtaking you are?”

“I know,” he responds, tone tinged with smugness. You don’t miss the softening of his smile.

That night, he falls asleep curled against your side, under your blankets, in your bed.


End file.
